


Hōfuku

by murakistags



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5627299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakistags/pseuds/murakistags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random event prompt: "Someone is being bullied."</p><p>For Abigail Hobbs, finishing up her final year in high school isn't exactly as easy as she initially thought it would be…especially with the nasty legacy her father left to trail behind her. It's a good thing that her new adoptive father Hannibal is there to help set a rude and unruly high school bully straight, and comfort her in the process. [Pre-Relevés (01x12)].</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hōfuku

**Author's Note:**

> Hōfuku / 報復  
> ("hoe-ooh-fuu-coo")  
> Japanese, meaning: "retribution."

"How was your day?"

 

A question fills the previously silent air of the closed-windowed Bentley. It's an inquiry just as polite as the man who utters it so softly, smooth like silk into the warm air. Lately, it'd been nothing but meager pleasantries between the two, and Hannibal had begun to resent it quite a bit. Be that as it may, he is also too well-aware of the workings of teenagers at Abigail's age, and has to constantly remind himself to not be ' _that_ dad.' (Moreover considering he is naught more than an adoptive guardian to this girl). But there's only so much of the silence and hesitation at every turn that even he can handle without beginning to feel restless. All the patience in the world couldn't be rewarded when faced with a girl naturally as manipulative and yet solid as stone as Abigail Hobbs. Dr. Hannibal Lecter always found her quite a treat, and even the girl herself isn't aware of the extent of her skills, her decidedly engaging persona. (Sure, he'd mentioned to her once, only in passing, about how pursuing a career in psychiatry after high school would be a great idea…but that wasn't something he much dwelled on at all. Neither did she).

 

"It was okay."

 

Abigail's minty eyes can't seem to tear away from the familiar spread of scenery zooming past outside the car window to her right, from where she sits directly next to Hannibal as he drives. Abigail, on some deeper level of consciousness, is very much cognizant of the fact that she's been moody, despondent at best, and…perhaps unspeakably rude in unintentionally taking it out on Hannibal. He trusted her, and she truly does trust him back, but…she doesn't feel quite at-ease discussing such things. He may be a psychiatrist, but in her mind she doesn't see him as such. Living in his home, as his adoptive charge, has allowed the girl to see him in an entirely different light now. A light more human and warm than any other setting of office or hospital could possibly conjure. It's made her feel safe and protected, but when she steps out of those exquisitely ornate walls, Abigail feels more vulnerable than anything else. Would it be strange, she wonders, to ask someone like him for advice? Would he psychoanalyze her and try to get inside of her mind from front to back, fiddling with every thought in-between…? The prospect unnerves her, and that is precisely why she continues to dodge every question, every advance of this man to bring her closer to him. Hannibal is woefully genuine in that way, and that causes Abigail to feel more guilt than she ever usually would. She thinks it's a necessary evil, most days, to just avoid at-length conversations with this man. The doctor thinks the very opposite, of course.

 

"Just 'okay?'"

 

 "…I guess."

 

Another few words, bland and punctuated by a swift sideways glance from Hannibal, one of his brows raised in a silent question. Still, the girl doesn't look in his direction, instead bringing a fingertip to the car window distractedly, nail tapping the glass with a small noise at each little bump in the road.

 

"Abigail."

 

Hannibal's tone is firm as his personality, stringent and unique, well-carried just as he normally wears his tailored, expensive suits. Just as the three-piece suit he wears now that so flawlessly hugs his entire body, one coloured a dark navy gingham print which is accented so sweetly by a burgundy damask tie and a crisp white dress shirt. It's a tone meant to draw attention, meant to not be intimidating, but to still remind the other of positions here, respect and power. Hannibal knows that Abigail still can't fully trust him, he is no fool in this regard. Perhaps it's less on an 'I-Helped-You-Hide-A-Dead-Body' scale, and more of an 'It's-Weird-That-You're-My-Dad-Now' one. …Nevertheless, it's glaringly obvious that there's a rift in the moment which the good doctor tries to overcome. If he couldn't do so, well…he is unfit to be called a psychiatrist in such high esteem as he is any longer. When he gains no reply aside from a deep, tired sigh, the man tries again, tone exactly the same as the one prior.

 

"Abigail."

 

And he is rewarded by a huffed reply, one mildly bratty but nonetheless an acknowledgement. It is progress all the same.

 

"…Yeah?"

 

"Is something the matter?"

 

And here is where silence stretches on again, much to the awkwardness of the young woman, and much to the slight annoyance of the older man. It's a sign of which Hannibal is very aware and familiar, and one which he thinks odd that Abigail doesn't try to hide from him very much at all. This despondence…it's a sign of repression as clear as day. One will always withdraw from the painful, to shield themselves away into the comfort of their own mind, shutting out everyone around in the process. How many times it had happened in his office, right in the middle of a session that was progressing so fluidly… Dr. Lecter is skilled at what he does, so he finds himself confident (and with good reason, too) that he can break this, at least a little bit.

 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

 

Once more, the man poises a question and hopes for an answer non-monosyllabic.

 

"No."

 

Again, he is disappointed. She still won't even look in his direction. Exhaling a deep breath and clearing his throat, eyes lock on the road as he sits very straight in the driver's seat, Hannibal licks his lips and his voice takes on a more stern quality, mildly more forceful though not at all uninviting.

 

"Well, I'd like to talk."

 

No answer. He continues.

 

"I worry about you, Abigail. If a silent, self-pity is your aim, let me assure you that it'll do you no good. Most times it's better to let it all out. …And I am here to listen. Not as a psychiatrist, but rather as someone in whom I hope you find trust and comfort."

 

He's edging her towards her own voice now, serving the ball across the net and letting it fall into Abigail's own court– whether or not she lobs it back towards him is a decision she herself must make. Hannibal places so much faith in her in this regard, in the hopes that the…perhaps less-than-savoury acts they each have committed around strange phone calls and stashing a gutted teenage body away into frost, would foster a new level of trust so deep that neither of them could pull apart. It's in the best interest of Hannibal, at the very least.

 

A furtive glance over at the girl by his side shows that his words have at least cracked the surface, just as he intended. But it still isn't enough to draw out emotions or words from the daughter of the shrike. Still, it is progress nonetheless. Abigail herself even feels it, that ever-present guilt when faced with a man so suave and genuine, so smart and skilled, that hiding anything that he even remotely cares about from him would be a disservice to his entire person.

 

"…I'll tell you later. Right now, I'm just tired."

 

Her voice as weary as she looks, she sounds resigned and breathy, a sad whisper of the ferocity of which she is very capable. Of which Hannibal knows her capable. These words, in spite of them being bricks of a wall between them still, please the doctor enough that his head gives a small nod, a hum resounds from his throat.

 

"…As you wish."

 

He can abide by this for now, but promises must be kept. His tone and posture just a hair more relaxed as he pulls into his familiar home driveway say just that to the girl. That he will let it drop for now, but his ears will eventually hear the truth.

 

…Or, perhaps it wouldn't take his sense of hearing to really begin piecing things together. A keen man indeed, hours later at dinner Hannibal could sense the tension thick and nearly tangible, as if it were a fresh corpse just slammed upon the dining table, rudely leaking warm blood onto his expensive silk tablecloth. The proverbial elephant in the room leaves them both mostly silent in savouring whatever concoction of ingredients he's prepared that night. Abigail might've tried to hide it, but the sweaty scent of salt could so distinctly be smelled by Hannibal. The scent of fresh tears. He could see it too, the very slight puff to the tender skin around her eyes. At least, he notes in silence, the crying is indicative of some type of catharsis.

 

—•—•—•—

 

Not a day later and Dr. Hannibal Lecter is given his answer sharp and clear. That question about Abigail and the strange way in which she's been acting…has finally been answered. The girl doesn't even know it at first.

 

See, Abigail is very much the type of girl who can recover well. Nightmares on a bad night, perhaps, but by morning she is healthy and hale, crisp and refined and ready to take on the world. Half of it is a brilliantly crafted mask, the other is a sense of self so strong that Hannibal can taste it upon his refined palate. Proclivity for manipulation and the psychological arts aside, he can see in Abigail what even she cannot see within herself. A girl almost severed from life by the blade tucked into her neck, saved by the hands of both the doctor and special agent, can then stand tall with just the help of a scarf around her neck to hide that scar, and can face the world with an expression stern and better because of what she has had to go through. There is unspeakable strength in the bones and mind of Abigail Hobbs, and Hannibal is rewarded with a taste of just that on this lovely early-afternoon.

 

Abigail burst forth from the front school doors with a passion in her gaze and step, an anger ready to burst at the seams only barely transferred to the slam of the metal door in the hinges. A stringy blonde male is right on her heels, his lips parting with words certainly furious and immature. 

 

Hannibal watches the entire scene play out from the safety behind tinted glass windows of his Arnage, seated still with eyes narrowed in observation and hands folded in his lap beneath the curve of steering wheel. He cannot hear completely, even with a window or two cracked very slightly, for the entire length of property is filled with bustling and noisy teenagers let out of school for the day. Even so, it takes little effort to read lips, and get some idea of the conversation between his adoptive daughter and this young man who looks like a shriveled beanstalk turned blonde.

 

"Shrike's girl, shrike's girl! C'mon, don't be a little bitch! …What? You angry? You gonna try and kill me? Did your father teach you how to do that–?"

 

Fury quickly spikes and reaches a point of no return in that moment, and the antagonizing male gesticulating with his every annoying word is soon shut up– at least just briefly. By the time that last word leaves his mouth, Abigail has turned back towards him, pivoting on her heel quite swiftly and daintily considering she still wears her backpack. The expression on her face is one mildly teary but also bubbling with rage, and it's this very potent mix of raging emotions that she so effortlessly pours into her fist. In an instant, her arm jolts out and the balled fist drives her knuckles mercilessly right into the male's face. Right against the corner of his nose, upper lip, and inner cheek, Abigail punches the male so hard that he stumbles back and only catches himself on the body of someone unfortunately passing behind him at that very moment.

 

In the slow-motion to follow, Abigail is wrought with too many thoughts, a sensory overload that boiled down to a fury so white-hot that it physically manifested…in the blood she draws from that boy's face. Hannibal, on the other hand, watches in a sort-of awe. It is surprising to see her lash out so forcefully, so suddenly, but it is also a reassurance. She can inflict violence when it best suits her…and is this very simple concept not exactly how Hannibal lives his entire life? He'll step in if it escalates too far, for certain, but in the next moments he only continues to watch in a silence, gaze calculating though hidden.

 

Abigail is rearing to go, hand aching from the fierce blow, but her every nerve on-edge and ready to face a recoil. She says nothing, not even when the boy spits blood and nasty profanities at her, and jumps back to approach. She doesn't have to say a word, for the entire area has mostly gone dead silent, every other high-schooler in the immediate vicinity falling into a shocked audience for the anger between Abigail and this boy. The hush falls like a thick smog over the area, but is corrupted by screaming.

 

"You fucking bitch! Who the hell do you think you are?!"

 

If Abigail could roll her eyes in that moment, she would. But alas, she has to defend herself. It comes naturally, raising both of her arms to block a blow from the male, saving her own face from a harsh reckoning. But the struggle that comes thereafter is so real, everybody suspended in silence to watch as these two teenagers angrily huff and screech and begin to tear at one another. Abigail tries to punch him again, but he grabs her. He tries to wrap an arm around her neck, pull her to the floor, and he succeeds. They both go tumbling down a few steps, leaving Abigail with pain shooting down her back and leg, and with the side of her face painfully grazed to the unforgiving concrete. Still, she fights back, and nobody intervenes. A scuffle on the stairs comes next, but the two bodies eventually break apart, though not after copious amounts of grunting, scratching, and punching on both ends. Abigail stumbles to her feet and shrugs off her backpack without care, looking messed and ruffled but still far, far better off than the boy whose face bleeds quite messily from her fist. Inhaling deep breaths like a feral beast, both Abigail and the boy size up one another again, the girl looking so ready to jump in attack once more.

 

The boy throws another fist without warning, but–…

 

"Stop this."

 

A voice as calm as the chill in the air fills the open space, and takes both of the fighters by surprise. Hannibal's firm grip just then, darts out to grab the young man's wrist, and cease the next wind of attack on his daughter. He'd tucked away his car keys into his pocket and dipped through the crowd wordlessly, and nobody was the wiser until now. He thinks it a shame, really, that not even a staff from the school itself has stepped in or been informed of this roaring mess of drama on the school's very front steps. Horrid, really.

 

The voice from Hannibal's throat commands as much respect as his posture and appearance. Hair slicked back slightly, eyes beady and sharper than surgical steel, and a body clad in polished shoes, a tailored three-piece, and topped with a perfectly-fitting long coat, the doctor appears to be quite an intimidation just then. In comparison to his 'daughter' there dressed in green and blue button flannel top and dark skinny jeans with black high-top sneakers, they both couldn't look more unrelated. It's amusing as it is strange.

 

Hannibal takes a great pleasure in the expression upon the boy's face just then, that look of just knowing who the alpha is, knowing just who is in charge and who is to not be toyed with. All fight drains from the boy's face, contrary to the force with which he violently wrenches his wrist free of Hannibal's grasp. The doctor had never seen this boy before, and vice versa, but it takes not a second to realize just what is happening when Abigail looks up, bloodied and mussed, and speaks past labored breaths.

 

"H-Hannibal, I–…"

 

But the very man whose name is spoken is having none of it. Replacing both of his hands into his pockets while standing between the two teenagers (and the largely silent group still onlookers to this bit of rare drama), Hannibal raises his chin and looks decidedly down upon the situation. As if he is above it. Abigail knows that look too well, and though she is keen enough to see it as both angry disappointment and also intrigue, the boy can only see the former. This shuts him up and stills his bully self rather quickly.

 

"Apologize."

 

Stern, sharp, punctual as most other words from Hannibal's mouth. He looks down at Abigail and meets her gaze with a stare smoldering and dark. Once again, he repeats himself.

 

"Apologize to this young man."

 

Alabaster cheeks on the young woman flood suddenly with heat, a pinkish tint creeping up the skin in shame at being publicly reprimanded. On some level of her better mind, Abigail realized that she indeed threw the first punch and should've walked from his idiocy, but then again…she knows that boy had it coming. It was only a matter of time before she snapped, really. Thankfully Hannibal was here for damage control. He always seemed to be amazing for that. But this time, she just swallows her pride. Breathing evens out as she regains her balance, rooted but still hunched on her two feet upon the stairs. Though raggedy and mildly bloodied she may look, Abigail's expression does become sorrowful. It's a ploy, a guise which Hannibal sees right through, but he allows it. She's a very brilliant actress, he muses in silence behind that stern-faced, expectant stare.

 

"…I-I…I apologize. I'm sorry." Abigail exhales while averting her gaze, unable to really look the bleeding boy with a now split lip in the face. Voice sounding exasperated, tired, she also adds after a short pause: "I shouldn't have hit you."

 

"I'm sorry too."

 

The boy seems far less approving of this 'apology' nonsense, especially when she hit him first, his skull as thick and mindset as dense as a little brat. But Hannibal and Abigail suppose that they'll get what they will, and the fact that the word 'sorry' likewise falls from his lips coated in congealing crimson is all they could possibly ask for. The air turns awkward straight away after the words are exchanged and the rest of surrounding onlookers begin to disperse from the scene of the brief showdown. Luckily, Hannibal comes to the rescue with a sharp setting of his maroon-flecked gaze on the male shorter than him, and with a vague gesture of hand for Abigail to gather up her backpack from the concrete.

 

"Young man, what I can only imagine you've said or done to _my daughter_ Abigail is unspeakably rude. Antagonizing like a little uncouth child is extremely immature and I can't condone it even in spite of her throwing the first hit. However, perhaps against my better senses, I will _not_ walk you into the school right now and have a stern word with the principal. For this reason, it would be wise for you to stroll back inside to the washroom, right yourself, and then carry on as though this altercation never happened at all. Am I clear?"

 

When Hannibal finishes his succinct and stern words, it's as though the boy is far too mortified to even look away. Abigail's father? Adoptive, must be. Him? Considering how much more extremely pale the young man becomes in a matter of mere seconds, both Hannibal and Abigail know that his words have made the proper impact. The gaze, too. Dr. Lecter's naturally beady eyes always did have the unique, uncanny ability to strike a bone-deep fear into the unwary.

 

"Y-Yes'sir," the younger male squeaks out softly, then not waiting a second longer to gather up his own backpack and fly up the stairs in retreat. Two at a time he takes the concrete stairs, and with Hannibal's stare simmering into his back he vanishes past the glass doors and back into the school halls from whence he came with his teasing just a handful of minutes prior.

 

Hannibal then clears his throat, seems to straighten up now that the boy is gone, and finally refocuses on the disgruntled teen girl by his side, her body waiting there as if expecting a thunderbolt to storm down at her any second now. Abigail knows that Hannibal doesn't like rudeness, and she picks away at her mind, wondering if this kind of physical self-defense is at all excusable and considered not-rude.

 

"Let's go home," the doctor's voice is smooth, matching the movement with which he places a large hand on Abigail's back, and ushers her down the remainder of the stairs and across the parking lot.

 

The drive home will be unremarkable and stiff, this much Abigail can already tell. This man…he's so difficult to read from expression alone, and considering how Hannibal so carefully crafts every single ounce of speech from his lips, conversation also does very little to reveal much of the enigmatic man. He'll talk to her later, certainly, but he will leave a silence for them both to gather themselves after that little riot. Perhaps Abigail knows Hannibal better than she even thought in predicting these turn of events.

 

—•—•—•—

 

When Hannibal crosses the threshold behind Abigail and locks the front door with a familiar movement, only then does he break the silence. The warm walls of rich paint and antiques all about even in the foyer seem to soak in his tone, and even it out to dulcet notes to which Abigail cannot object.

 

"Abigail. Go up to the bathroom and fetch the medicine kit. Wait there for me; I'll be there in just a moment."

 

The girl pauses in her steps, back to the front door with long hair trailing over her shoulders, the wispy end of the silk scarf around her neck brushing the locks of hair as well. She makes no gesture or acknowledgement of the words the man speaks to her, but Hannibal knows that she will obey, that she's listened. Soon, she's setting down her backpack at the corner foot of the stairs, arms working to shrug out of her coat as feet in grey socks gently patter up the polished wood lined with rug down the center.

 

When she trails up the stairs, it's only then that Abigail can really begin to feel the weight of the scuffle in her bones. Both her lower back and her elbow ache from the small tumble down concrete stairs, and her face throbs from impact with the heel of that kid's palm. The side of her cheek boasts a long scratch bleeding faintly, her palms mildly scraped, and her lip bleeding in small blotches. Abigail definitely made it out of there as the victor, all things considered, and though she certainly knows it, she feels otherwise. Her stomach holds an uncomfortable twinge of nausea, and her nerves are frayed as she waits in the doctor's second-floor bathroom, just down the hall from both his room, and her own private room as well. The space is wide and tiled expertly, well-decorated just as every other surface in the large home, and Abigail has to tip-toe and lean slightly over the granite countertop to reach inside the medicine cabinet. Her jacket is discarded to the rest of the large countertop space, and she sets down the kit beside it, one hand flipping down the toilet cover so that she can sit there. Sinking down to rest her legs brings a deep breath, head hanging forward until tangles of dark hair becomes matted with blood from the side of her face. Before she knows it, an unfamiliar sting begins to prickle behind her eyelids. Eyes water, and she has to fight with every little bit of strength left in her body to keep the tears at bay.

 

Hannibal, on the other hand, has made quick work of shedding his suit jacket and waistcoat, unbuttoning the cuffs of his white dress shirt and rolling the long sleeves up to his elbows. Strong and firm forearms– now bare save for an expensive white gold wristwatch– shift as his hands fill a coated metal bowl with warm water from the kitchen tap, and procure a small dishrag from a counter beside the pantry. All the while, he is thinking silently to himself in a mite bit of fog, wondering how to approach this. Would she disapprove and be angry at him for stepping into her own battle? Or would she be grateful and thank him? No, he doesn't desire a thank you in the slightest, he realizes. Instead, what Hannibal would like for now is to get that blood off her smooth skin and make sure that she is still more or less in one piece. That is priority. …And then dinner, of course.

 

Scaling the stairs with bowl in hand and rag draped upon a bare forearm, expression stern, the doctor makes his way to he bathroom on sock-clad feet so perfectly stifling his movements across the familiar floors. He makes not a single sound, not even upon entering the large bathroom, merely observing with interest the girl curling into herself where she is perched in her seat. He can smell a slight salt of tears again, much like yesterday afternoon in the car, but with Abigail's head dipped and shrouded by thick hair, he is unable to truly see her expression. What he can see, however, is the mark of small bruises beginning to form on one of her bare upper arms, and the crisp scrape of broken flesh on her palms hanging there betwixt her knees.

 

It isn't until the soft clink of bowl being set down on the edge of the counter fills the air, that Abigail's head jolts up to notice that Hannibal has entered the room. Softly and firmly enough to be reassuring, his older gaze flits down to her own, holding it there in a silence for a handful of seconds. Breaking the intense lock of gazes comes with the male dipping the small rag into warm water and making work of wringing it dry, the sound of soft water sluicing against the bowl oddly comforting to the girl just then. Moving closer thereafter, a deep breath is exhaled, and the doctor finds himself bending into a crouch on his heels before the girl seated atop closed toilet. One skilled hand takes her chin into deft fingers, turns her head slightly this way and that, scanning her face for any more visible injuries.

 

"Quite a mess, isn't it?" Soft words as suave as usual from Hannibal, right when his other hand raises to gently press warm, soaked cloth to bloodied and torn skin along the side of Abigail's face. The girl looks down, unable to bear fully looking into his eyes just yet. "…But then again, I'm not certain what else you could've expected when you first punched that young man in the face." A pause is sullen, pierced only dully by another hum of exhale. "I saw the entire scene play out, Abigail, and I'm still not entirely certain that he deserved your sudden violence."

 

"Yes he did."

 

Abigail suddenly rears, words passing her lips with a twitch of eyes and lashes, almost a soft growl through her pearly teeth as she suddenly looks back down into Hannibal's eyes.

 

"How so?"

 

"He…h-he…" It's hard for her to speak like this, when he's being so gentle and washing away her wounds, leaving skin of her face and hands so clean and soft. It's a tender feeling from Hannibal that now clashes uncomfortably with the anger still in her breast with that obnoxious clown from earlier. Thus, her words are mostly a hiss, low and somewhat tired, exasperated. "He said…things, to me. About my father, about…a-about how I could be like him."

 

"You are not your father, Abigail. You know that very well, don't you?"

 

Hesitation. Then:

 

"…I do. But…"

 

"But?"

 

"…I don't know. I don't know, Hannibal. I'm just…s-so tired."

 

"Fair enough."

 

The conversation drops momentarily, just as Abigail's tears suddenly do. Hannibal allows this, and politely turns his gaze away for her own comfort. Instead, moments later, he is focusing on disinfecting and wrapping small cuts on her face, palms. It's as if she begins to unravel and fall apart in tears and blood, and Hannibal is there to collect it all up. …To mold it in his favour, into something new and something else entirely. This time, however, there is no malice, no extraordinary persuasion or mind-games, no. None of that. Only a gentle healing from this man who has so boldly taken on the role of a father in the broken life of this orphan girl.

 

"It is important to always choose your battles wisely, Abigail. Just because it seems that you have an upper hand or a possibly firm motive in any situation, doesn't mean that you should always step forth and attack. Think twice, then thrice, about every word you speak and every action you perform. This way, in the end, you will always know that you've made the most wise decision of all, for yourself. Only for yourself, Abigail, and no one else. Perhaps I shouldn't have interfered, and if my doing so made you uncomfortable, I apologize. Allow this to be a simple reminder that I am here, is all."

 

The smile with which his words are met is enough to touch his twisted heart sincerely. Abigail feels a little unsettled but now…warm, and appreciated. Comforted. It's a feeling she hasn't encountered in a very, very long time now. No words on her part could possibly match that of Hannibal, and so she merely gives a shaky nod, sucks in a deep, sniffly breath to hold back more tears running down her pale cheeks, and gives that little smile of hers. Looking into Hannibal's gaze is once again only a brief connection. …Because, this time, he has wordlessly gathered her into his firm strong arms and pulled her against his chest where she so readily buries in silence again, for the second time in their complicated relationship. 

**Author's Note:**

> Frankly, I'm so painfully guilty of loving myself a little Hannigail father-daughter relationship. I wish there were more moments, or even flashbacks, shared between the two of them in all seasons of Hannibal. This work is the result of my mind pining for more screen-time of them together, really. The father-daughter dynamic between them is undoubtedly an extremely complex thing, so I tried my best to capture little bursts of it as accurately as I could imagine within the canon. Hope it wasn't all too bad.
> 
> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


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